Red String
by swastini
Summary: An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break. Multiple pairings.


**Red String**

Japan's hands are cold and terrifyingly small in his grasp – his fingers tremble ever so slightly as he ties the end of a red string to the younger nation's pinkie finger, before tying the other end to his own. The thin line hangs between them like an unspoken promise, beautiful and unbreakable.

"This will keep us together forever, aru." China says. Japan nods, almost imperceptibly, and agrees.

"Forever."

It just makes the swift strike of a katana – cutting down his back, slicing through more than a thousand years of history, severing all ties – all the more painful.

* * *

Romano is allergic to intimacy. He knows that, accepts it whole heartedly and happily. His Lovi may not be as cute as the adorable Italy, or as strong as the stalwart Germany, but he loves the boy all the same. And while Romano may try to push him away, he knows that can't escape each other.

"China told me once… all lovers are tied to each other," He whispers into Romano's ear, as they lie together; Romano curled against his bare chest, while he tenderly strokes the other nation's hair. "By string that can't be cut… _Que piensas_, Lovino?"

"_Non venirmi a raccontare stronzate_." Romano mumbles. Spain just smiles and pulls him closer.

* * *

He loves all fairytales – English fairytales, Japanese fairytales, even the odd Dutch or German one. He collects them, fills his library with them, with page upon page of stories from all over the world, all meticulously handwritten in his finest calligraphy on the finest parchment. There's one from China he particularly likes – the story of the red string that ties lovers together for eternity, never to be undone, never to be removed.

There's only one country that knows about his hobby, and it's same one he's never gotten a single fairytale from.

"How romantic, a little red string. It makes you think, doesn't it?" France murmurs, as he trails a pale, thin finger wistfully down the page. England harrumphs a little, but the older man can only give a small, sad smile. "_Toi et moi, Arthur_…"

He can't help but take a quick glance at the space between him and Francis, before snatching the book away.

* * *

"When we were kids, I had to practically tie Gilbert to me to stop him from wandering the hell off!" he semi-shouts over a mug of beer, slapping the table to emphasizes his point. His vision is a little fuzzy thanks to the alcohol, but he can see a certain Canada and Romano nodding dejectedly across the table.

"Oh, tell me about it, eh," Canada whines. "Alfred was the worst brother EVER, eh – you don't know how much trouble he got me into back then… to think about it, he still does it, eh…"

"Puh-lease. All of them have nothing on Veneziano, that fucking bastard." Romano hollers, gesticulating wildly. "Fucking bitch bastard asshole son of a whore douchebag…"

But as he turns to look at his older brother – stupid, annoying Gilbert, his red eyes wild with laughter and booze, dancing on the table next to Italy, arguing over who's more awesome with America, living harder and loving harder than anyone – he smiles.

Germany thinks that the ropes that once bound them together have never really come off.

* * *

Winter chokes him.

Winter takes his scarf and pulls hard, pulls tight, pulls so hard and so tight he can barely breathe.

And he collapses into the snow, gasping and clawing for air, and Winter laughs a cold, bitter laugh and pulls him even closer.

"You'll be mine forever, _dorogoy_, forever and ever and ever."

Russia takes those words to heart. So who can blame him when spring comes, the sunflowers bloom, and he fights to pull those he loves closer to him too?

* * *

I love you. The words slip clumsily off his tongue, and suddenly he feels like an idiot. An idiot standing in front of a mirror, practicing saying 'I love you' to his brother. His own brother, goddamnit.

Actually, it kinda makes sense, 'cause they look so effing alike, what being twins and all. Maybe if he looks hard enough into the mirror, he might see his brother looking back. And he would say, I love you; sorry for not telling you for all these years, but I just want to get it all out now, what with all the stuff going on – the economy going down the shit hole and the war in Iraq (still don't approve, BTW) – but it's great that your boss came over, you know, strengthening relations and stuff, and damn it, bro. I love you. I always have, and I know I always will.

He doesn't know that 1523 miles below him, at the end of an invisible string, his brother wants to say the same thing.

* * *

_Att vara kär, dä ä en ryslig pina,  
den som försökt dä säger inte nej.  
Jag var så rysligt kär i Nikolina  
å Nikolina lika kär i mej._

Sweden has a scary voice, but it's also a nice voice. He tries to sing along to the Swedish folk song as they twirl the skipping rope around, but with Sealand screaming between them and the noise of the playground behind them, he can barely hear the words.

"Su-san! Su-san!" He tries to signal the other man, who stops moving, which causes the rope to stop rotating at one end, which cause Peter's foot to get caught, which causes the poor boy to fall onto the rope, which cause the two men at each end of the rope to be pulled down as well, which in turn causes all of them to all fall into an undignified heap on the ground, tangled up and tied together by skipping rope.

Finland laughs. Sealand laughs. Sweden smiles.

_Å nu så vänter ja å Nikolina  
att gubben han ska kola vippen av,  
å till ett minne efter honom sättes  
den gamla påken uppå gubbens grav.

* * *

_

They were together in 962. Those were happier times – carefree strolls through never-ending meadows of flowers, painting bunnies on canvases as big as he was, his ankle-length skirt brushing the sweet, summer grass beneath his feet. They were happy; ridiculously so.

They were together in 1882. Neither could have known, but still, he was happy. In the shadow of his ally, he saw someone else, and thought his promises fulfilled. And as Austria and Hungary smiled from the sidelines, they grew together, and for a while, he was happy.

They were together in 1940. This time, they were in the midst of war, but there was something in him, a joy that was hard to contain. His happiness showed, this delirious, unfounded happiness, in hopes of bringing memories back to both of them.

And each time, without knowing, the promise that held them together, the thread that bound them to each other, grew stronger, and waited to be discovered.

They were together on February the 14th.

"I-Italy?" Germany's voice is scared and lonely and broken. He smiles though, even as the tears run down his cheeks.

"It's okay now, Germany," Italy's hands tremble as they clutch his, but they're soft as well, and so unbelievably warm.

"It's going to be okay."

* * *

**A/N: Wrote this ages ago, just found it today and decided to upload it. Please read, enjoy and review.**


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